


Two Months

by hwshipper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-16
Updated: 2008-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwshipper/pseuds/hwshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson is heading back to Princeton from a break after Amber's death. Scene set between s4 & s5. <strong>Warning:</strong> angsty.</p><p><strong>Excerpt:</strong> "Let me get this straight," Chris said slowly. "You haven't seen or spoken to House in two <em>months?</em>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> References to Wilson/Amber. Also features a recurring OMC of mine, but only as a sounding board, no previous knowledge required.  
> **Beta:** the ever-reliable [](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/profile)[**triedunture**](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/)

Wilson pulled off the road and parked on the shoulder overlooking the sea. He turned the engine off and stared out at the view, at the water rolling white and sparkling towards the horizon. He saw it, tried to appreciate it, but couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel much at all.

He'd found over the last two months that if he let himself feel anything then everything became too much.

There was a reason he was driving back towards Princeton this way, but he hadn't given it much actual thought; he was acting on instinct and dimly remembered routine from a long time ago. Now he sat back in his seat, rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his head. Yes, he did know why he was here; he glanced at his watch. He wanted to talk to someone else he knew who had lost a loved one after a road accident. And yes, he was in the right place, at the right kind of time.

The sound of a large approaching vehicle came humming into the background. Wilson glanced around and saw it was a bus. It came roaring past, its tires huge and black, a few feet from Wilson's car.

Wilson sat very still, except for his hands trembling against the steering wheel.

After a few minutes, he was able to stop shaking. He took a firm grip on the wheel, turned the engine on again, pulled back onto the road and took the next right turn. The sign pointed down towards a beachside steakhouse.

 

* * *

  
The head waiter burst into Chris's office without remembering to knock, saying, "Chris, _Wilson's_ here!"

Chris looked up from his computer, startled. He hadn't seen Wilson for several years; they'd kept in touch, exchanged sporadic friendly emails, but there'd been no occasion to meet.

"Sorry," the waiter said awkwardly. "Um, I've put him at the big window table."

"That's fine," Chris said hastily. That had always been Wilson's table. "Tell him I'll be out in a minute."

He took a minute to finish the calculation he'd been doing, hit save, then stood up and strode out into the restaurant.

Wilson was there, in his old favorite seat, looking out to sea. He was sitting slightly hunched up and still, very still. His gaze was dull and blank.

Chris recognized _grief_ immediately. He'd suffered from it himself for too long not to be able to spot it in someone else. Grief that was still fresh, too; raw, all-encompassing grief. Grief that had been deliberately numbed so as to be able to function, to walk, to talk. Otherwise it would just choke everything up and make life impossible.

A wave of sorrow swept over Chris at the sight. He walked up quietly and took the seat next to Wilson.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Wilson muttered, his voice taut and strained.

There was a short silence, then Wilson said awkwardly, "I don't know if you know..."

"Linus said you'd written to him, to all your patients, said you were going away for a while," Chris said, trying to ease things along, but not knowing what the problem was. "That must have been a couple of months ago? You're back now?"

"Cuddy gave me two months off." Wilson said, and closed his eyes briefly. "Bereavement leave."

Chris felt a short sharp burst of anxiety--surely not _House_, no, Linus would have heard if it was House--followed by another wave of sorrow at the knowledge that it was indeed grief that was making Wilson sit here, barely holding himself together.

"Amber, my girlfriend," Wilson went on, apparently seeing through his dull haze that more explanation was required. "She was in a bus accident. She died the next day from complications... I had to turn off her life support..."

"Jesus Christ." Chris was horrified. A bus accident. Edward had been hit by a truck, but he'd died on the spot--and Chris had surely never thought he'd be grateful for that, but the thought of having to pull the plug on a lingering death made him feel sick to the stomach.

"I'm sorry," Chris said presently, and they sat for a while, not saying much.

The waiter came and brought them sodas; Wilson drank deeply, apparently thirsty, but shook his head when Chris tentatively suggested food. It made Chris recall how little he'd eaten after Edward's death. His body had wanted to gnaw away at itself rather than consume anything new.

Wilson put down the empty glass, and said, his eyes on the table, "I'm sorry to come and barge in on you here like this. I know it's been a while..."

"That's okay," Chris tried to sound reassuring.

"I hope Linus is still in remission?" Wilson asked, and Chris understood that although Wilson did want to know this, it was also a way of stalling, putting off what he had really come here to say.

"Linus is fine," Chris said firmly. "What about you?"

Wilson covered his eyes with the back of his hand, and said quietly, "It was House's fault."

Chris waited, but when Wilson didn't seem inclined to go on, had to ask, "What do you mean?"

Wilson dropped his hand, and Chris saw for a second brown eyes scorched with excruciating pain and flaring anger. "It was House's fault she was on that bus."

And then suddenly it all came pouring out. "_Fucking House_, drunk in a bar, bartender took his keys, Amber went to pick him up. She took the call because I wasn't there..." Wilson's voice petered out, then came back stronger and more agonized. "She followed him on the bus to give him back his cane. She died because he was fucking _drunk _and being fucking _obstinate_." He took a deep breath.

"House was in the bus accident too?" Chris asked, trying to get things clear in his head.

"Yes. He was hurt too, badly hurt actually, but he still managed to walk away and go to a strip club." Wilson's voice shook again. "Typical fucking House, doesn't care if he lives or dies most of the time, risks his life all the time for stupid, pointless reasons--he walks away, and Amber dies."

Chris was silent, not knowing what to say. He'd never heard Wilson talk about House with rage like this.

"I loved her, Chris, I really did. She was beautiful and intelligent, and she _got_ me, Chris, it's hard to explain, but she really got me." Wilson put a hand over his face, stabbing his eyelids with his fingertips. "We hadn't even been going out that long, only a couple of months or so, but..."

Chris shrugged. He'd made some immediate personal connections in his life, not in the least with Wilson. He knew how irrelevant time could be.

"House always said she was like him," Wilson went on. "Which she was, but she was different too; she wasn't always _taking, taking, taking_, and never giving anything back, like House."

Chris had seen too much of House and Wilson's deep and long-lasting connection, dysfunctional as it was, to take this at face value.

"Wilson, it's obviously a fucking horrible tragedy. And I'm really sorry. But..." Chris hesitated, then went on. "It sounds like House was just being the awkward bastard he always is."

"Yes. That's exactly it. House behaving just like he'd always fucking behaved." Wilson's voice rose sharply. "Like he's not responsible, he can do whatever the hell he wants, the world will go on owing him and I'll be there to pick up the pieces. And look what happened. It cost Amber her life. And... the last two months I've been away, I haven't seen House, but I've been thinking a lot. I've been thinking about all the times I've done the same thing, gone and rescued him from being drunk or drugged out of his skull, or whatever.... like a parasite. House has cost _me_ my life too."

Chris didn't take in the last part, his attention had been caught at an earlier point.

"Let me get this straight," Chris said slowly. "You haven't seen or spoken to House in two _months?_"

"Nope."

Chris was astonished and incredulous. This just didn't sit with the House and Wilson he knew; with their twenty-year friendship, heck, twenty-year relationship. With their neighboring offices and shared balcony; with their easy conversation, synchronized walks, and blue eyes and brown eyes communicating silently over the same wavelength. This was... bad. "Have you _ever_ not seen him for that long before?"

"Not for a long time," Wilson admitted. "But I don't want to see him, Chris. I can't stand the thought of seeing him. I went to see him just after Amber died, he was in the hospital too, and I looked at him and I just couldn't bear to be with him anymore." Wilson sounded cold now, remote. "In fact, I'm thinking now that I'm not going to go back to work."

Chris took a moment to absorb this. "You're not going back to Princeton?"

"I'm going home, but I don't think I can go back to work at Princeton Plainsboro. How can I?... How can I work with House in the office next door? He _killed_ her, Chris." Wilson turned and looked directly at Chris for the first time. "I'm going to go back and hand in my notice, and pack up and leave. And if I never see House again, I won't be sorry."

This was major shit. Chris looked at Wilson, trying to see past the words, trying to get to the essence of the situation.

And he recollected the intense, passionate physical relationship he'd observed in messy close-up, and realized this wasn't just a broken friendship; this was a soul splitting in two. And Wilson was heartbroken not once, but twice; over the woman he loved who was dead, and the man he loved who had let him down so badly. And the fact that the second had caused the first was fate grabbing Wilson's heart, balling it up and ripping it to shreds.

No wonder Wilson was reacting so strongly.

Chris could only say, "I don't think you should do anything hasty..."

"It's not hasty, I've been thinking about it for two months." Wilson sat up straight.

Chris knew he had only been exposed to a tiny amount of information about a very complicated situation, but he didn't believe for a second that this was it. House and Wilson had worked through bad shit before; there would be a way through this. Even if it took a while to find. He didn't think Wilson would appreciate this thought, though.

Instead Chris observed, "House isn't going to let you go just like that."

"No," Wilson agreed and smiled for the first time, a sad smile. "He'll probably hire a private investigator or something to see what I'm up to."

Chris smiled back. He wanted to reach out and squeeze Wilson's hand, offer comfort, but he didn't actually think Wilson would appreciate it, and he didn't want to be misconstrued.

Instead, he remembered how Linus had forced him to eat at a time when he might have otherwise just let himself collapse. He raised a hand and clicked his fingers to summon the waiter and order lunch.

Wilson demurred again, but Chris wasn't taking no for an answer this time. Wilson insisted he couldn't stomach steak, but Chris managed to get him to eat a little fresh Atlantic salmon, blackened and chargrilled right off the barbecue outside. And when Wilson left a couple of hours later to continue on the road back to Princeton, Chris hoped he'd helped at least a little.

END

[A/N: This fic now has a sequel: [Two Months And Counting](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/15659.html)

* * *

  
[A/N: So I thought I wasn't going to write a post s4 fic but I guess I got a plot bunny from somewhere :)

On a completely different note, I've just finished my fic commentary for _Memoirs of an Oncology Department Secretary chapter 1_: if you're interested, it's [here](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/15188.html)].


	2. Two Months And Counting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation in Wilson's office, in Wilson's absence.  
> **Excerpt:** Chris looked straight at House, and asked, "Or are you just sitting here to be close to something close to _him_?"

When the psychedelic Slinky screensaver appeared, House realized he'd been staring blankly at his computer screen for far too long. Fuck it, he had a patient, he had a diagnosis to do, and for possibly the first time _ever_ he couldn't concentrate on the medicine.

The empty office next door had upset the scales, shifted his universe and left peculiarly him off-balance. House had always known that Wilson kept him grounded, made things real, steered him in the right direction. Not to mention being the sounding board for any number of diagnostic leaps.

But his absence was more jarring than House might have ever feared; the hole more gaping, the void emptier. House craved companionship and no amount of attempts by either his current staff or his former staff was filling it. The connection had been severed and House was left hanging helplessly in the air. And worse than that was the lack of intimacy; more than two months now, with no Wilson close at hand, no cozy evenings of warmth and touching and more...

House reached for his cane and levered himself to his feet. He headed out to the balcony, took a moment to inhale fresh air, then strode along to the next door office.

It was bare and felt bleak, but Wilson's desk and chair were still there. House sat down on the chair, closed his eyes, and breathed in Wilson's air, Wilson's atmosphere. The ever so faint smell of Wilson's shampoo and cologne still clung to the chair, and House started to relax.

His head cleared a little and his brain started to work on the case.

 

* * *

  
Chris came out of the elevator and looked around, getting his bearings. It had been years since he'd visited Princeton Plainsboro and he wasn't entirely sure he'd gotten out at the right floor. The layout seemed to have moved around from how he remembered it.

Ah, there was House's office: couldn't miss it with all that glass. The glass also showed that House wasn't there at the moment, although it looked as if he had just stepped out. Books and papers were heaped on his desk: a colorful coiled spring bounced across his computer screen.

In the conference room next door sat a woman and two men. Chris didn't know them, but they were wearing white coats and he assumed they were House's staff. He'd never known House's staff and understood they'd all changed in the last year anyway.

He didn't want to go in and ask them where House was; better to hang around until House turned up. Maybe he could try the cafeteria in the meantime. A sudden thought struck Chris, and he headed down the corridor to the door that said JAMES WILSON M.D. He tried the handle without knocking--he knew Wilson wasn't there--and the door swung open.

House looked up in surprise from the seat behind the desk.

"Chris? What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Looking for you." Chris shut the door behind him and came and sat in the chair opposite the desk.

He took a moment to look around: the room felt hollow and empty. It _was_ empty; just the bare bones of furniture left. Wilson had come back to clear his stuff out, of course; so the trophies, the certificates, the mementos from young patients had all gone.

House glared at him. "And you're looking for me because...?"

"A private investigator's been hanging around my club." Chris sat back in the chair and fixed House with a hard look. "I don't appreciate that kind of thing. One of my staff caught him snooping and nearly broke his arm."

House snorted. "He's keeping tabs on Wilson. He doesn't give a damn about your sordid affairs." House paused, then added deliberately, "Though _I_ was quite interested to learn you had a new squeeze. What's his name--Mark, Mike, Matt--"

"None of your fucking business, House," Chris said, letting a dangerous edge creep into his voice.

"Just wondered if you'd found yourself another Edward doppelganger." House bit back.

Once upon a time Chris would have beaten the crap out of House for a crack like that, but he kept his temper and replied evenly, "You can talk. Sitting here in Wilson's office, in his chair at his desk, after he's quit and cleared all his stuff out. What are you doing? Sitting here wishing you hadn't killed his girlfriend after all?"

Chris knew this was cruel but also knew it was exactly what House would have said if their positions had been reversed.

House's eyes flashed blue. "Fuck off."

"Then what are you you trying to do? Recreate yourself in his image? Commune with him in his absence?" Chris looked straight at House, and asked, "Or are you just sitting here to be close to something close to _him_?"

House broke eye contact and his jaw twitched. Chris realized that he'd hit the nail on the head.

Apparently feeling the need to explain, which meant he was rattled, House said, "I'm working. I've got a patient. I can hear myself think in here."

There was a pause, than House added, "He shouldn't have quit, the idiot. Said everything here reminded him of her. I told him he'd be over her in six months and regret it then, but he's not listening."

"No wonder, if you were saying things like that," Chris couldn't help but retort. He thought of Wilson in the depths of grief. Chris hesitated, then asked, knowing he was in a no-win situation with this one, "Have you thought about apologizing to him, perhaps?"

"For FUCK'S SAKE!" House shouted, leaning forward. He grabbed his cane and brought it down on the floor with a crash. "Haven't I had enough of this from Cuddy, without you popping up to lecture me too? And anyway, I _have_ apologized!"

Chris raised his eyebrows. This was quite a revelation, especially coming from House.

House went on, speaking more quietly, "Though I might as well have been talking to the wall, for all the good it did. He said we weren't friends anymore... had maybe _never_ been friends."

_Ouch._ Chris winced. Wilson could hardly have said anything more cutting than that.

"I'm sorry," Chris said, a trifle helplessly.

"She died too young," House said unexpectedly. "Like Marilyn Monroe, Jimmy Dean... Wilson's always going to remember her as perfect. She wasn't; she was a bitch and a ball breaker and he'd have gotten fed up with it in the end. But she died when she was young and beautiful, and they were right in the honeymoon phase, and everything was just peachy wonderful."

There was a pause, then House added, "Which means that Wilson is _never_ going to forgive me."

Chris had never liked House and knew House had never liked him either, but they'd managed to co-exist in the past when they'd had to, and it gave Chris no pleasure at all to see him like this; to see the House-Wilson relationship that was so fundamental, so long-lasting, as broken as Chris thought it had ever been.

"Call off the private dick, House," Chris said, standing up quietly to go.

"Fine. Done. He's busy investigating my entire staff at the moment anyway." House waved a hand in dismissal.

Chris left, thinking that none of this was right; the world was all awry on its axis at the moment.

He was still sure House and Wilson would sort things out, but no longer so sure quite how they'd get there, and how long it might take.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The House/Wilson part of this story continues in [Beauty Spots](http://archiveofourown.org/works/65007).  
> The next story Chris appears in is Enough of the Deja Vu [part 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/71698/chapters/94933) although you might want to read [part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/71698/chapters/94935) first.


End file.
